


Sin.

by GallicGalaxy



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, How do I tag poetry, Poetry, Seven Deadly Sins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallicGalaxy/pseuds/GallicGalaxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Seven lies, multiplied by seven, multiplied by seven again..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrath

**Author's Note:**

> I don't update for a month, and when I finally come back, THIS is what I give you? POETRY?!?  
> Well yes. Exactly that.  
> Why? Well, awhile back I, for an unknown reason, decided to correlate Outlast characters with the seven deadly sins. Some of them fit so perfectly I knew I couldn't abandon this idea, but then...then there was Envy. I had some difficulty with certain parts of the assigning, so I sorta left the idea alone for some time, but then I came back to it. It seemed like a cool concept for some art pieces, but because I can't draw to save my life, I decided that I could do poetry instead. And so, I did. I wrote some poetry. (Bonus points for identifying what obscure source the summary quote is from.)  
> For added fun, you can try guessing which character is which sin as you go along...Or guess who will be who beforehand and then see which ones I actually chose as you read. But, if you don't want to do that, I'll list them all right here:
> 
> Chris Walker is Wrath  
> Eddie Gluskin is Lust  
> Frank Manera is Gluttony  
> Doctor Wernicke is Pride  
> Jeremy Blaire is Greed  
> Billy Hope is Sloth  
> Richard Trager is Envy

There is blood on his hands, and on his mind

Hot and villainous it flows between guiltless fingers,

Over fervent palms and heavy thoughts,

And coats the ruthless ground in crimson rivers.

 

See how mighty, how disgustingly strong is Wrath

Strong enough to break free from any chains,

Strong enough to tear the heart from the head,

But not strong enough to carry his own memories.

 

He caves into fear, into the blind need for justice

And with only one thought available to him,

His omnipresent purpose is paramount

And the blood of the victims must flow without end.

 

But alas, it is a tragic story clear to the bone

For Wrath's work is done not only to weaker beings,

But to his own weeping flesh as well,

As he tears the humanity off of his face

 

He rips his eyes open in desperation to see,

Saws the guilty flesh away from his lips

To show the wondering world his teeth

And pins his mouth open in a false smile

 

Anger burns like bile in the back of his throat

An anger he cannot explain or express,

A silent rage against everyone else and himself

Which drives him to tear everything apart.

 

But the seed of wrath was planted in him

Years before he ever had his current cause

And he cannot shake the weight off his shoulders.

Oh, poor Atlas, how do you carry on?

 

He walks as he always has, ceaselessly,

Trembling and panting with blind fury,

Shaking broken chains into the panting shadows,

Seeking bloodshed for imagined justice.

 

And he shall be judged;

For his wrath and his blind disregard,

He shall die swiftly and without blame

Granted bittersweet freedom from his rage.

 


	2. Lust

He crawls through this world with his teeth bared

Sniffing for stainless skirts to chase -

But he sees the world through a misshapen lens,

And he's been chewing at all the wrong ankles

 

Eyes aflame with desire, chest swollen with virility

The ruttish suitor hounds for loveless love,

For those who will bend backwards over the blade,

Who will open their wounds as most open their eyes.

 

He rifles through short-lived harlots,

Fills their hollows with false progeny;

Paves his progress with countless hysterical pregnancies

And knitted corpses with covered faces.

 

Love isn't for everybody,

And certainly not for those who die so soon

That he cannot sink himself into their bleeding warmth

And fill them up with warm corruption.

 

Love is a guise, a lie he weaves,

An old little tune he hums as he strides along

Playing the part of the gilded gentleman

In order to coax struggling lambs to the slaughter.

 

Beneath his false love and false lust is true lust,

Writhing and ravenous, stifled and starved for a lifetime

Crawling on its claws for what he will not let it attain

For lust is patterned by fear and expectations.

 

And it is this true lust, this force so refused,

That gives Lust his anger, his disgust,

His slavering, mutilating distaste

For that which he claims to desire.

 

Thus Lust can never be truly satiated,

His innermost longings never fulfilled

And he shall pursue forever what he doesn't want

Unsated lust eternally fueling unsated lust

 

And he shall be judged;

For his lust and his unending denial

He shall die slowly, with realization's hand

Resting warm and soft against his own.

 


	3. Gluttony

He has starved himself for centuries

For naught but the sake of finally engorging himself

On the forbidden fruit which he loves the most:

The hot, living, sanguine flesh of men.

 

His wretched, shrunken stomach has ached,

His crooked, blackened teeth gnashed in agony

As his urge to consume consumed him slowly

And his uneven mind shattered from the strain of longing.

 

But when the bonds are broken, the bars dissolved,

Chaos shall flood the world of the blackened,

And not a single element of this earth shall stand

Between Gluttony and his tender, turgid prey.

 

Victim of needless starvation, slavering with hunger,

He swells himself with blood and bone,

And cradles his mangled meal in his arms

The same way one would hold a lover.

 

But his true hunger for blood has only begun:

All his senses have been at last awakened;

With vitality renewed and hunger sharpened

Gluttony springs into the darkness, eager for more.

 

His teeth grind against splintered bones,

Struggle with the tough flesh of stalled hearts.

The hunger of his stomach is satisfied,

But never has his desire for more been greater.

 

His prey are left hollow, half-eaten,

Yet still he continues to fell them left and right

With no need for sustenance, no fuel for his actions

Save for an empty desire to feel himself consume.

 

Filthy with blood and full of flesh,

Still he hunts constantly, needlessly,

With no need, no hatred, and no care

He feeds on the life and health of others.

 

And he shall be judged;

For his gluttony and his needless waste

His fate shall fall outside the realm of sight and sound,

And never shall the story of his demise be sung.

 


	4. Pride

Hail, and bow, scatter left and right,

Before the white king on his icy throne

In a world so cold and bright and clean

That he could never believe it had a single flaw.

 

The king is bound by his veins to his own throne,

Staring down paintings that he has brought to life.

With lead in their minds and smoke in their lungs,

His subjects toil like machines in the engine room.

 

Undying Pride, long-lived Pride,

Pride who lived through war and slaughter

Only to bring it with him when he fled,

To place it like a halo on the weak heads of the ill.

 

He is the pioneer, the spearhead, the terrible paragon

The monarch of sickness and pale death

Unwilling to admit his fault in making the means

By which men were made into monsters.

 

The creator of everything, king of nothing

And the doctor who sent forth the plague:

A plague of the mind, a work of genius

Magic to some, a mere accomplishment to him.

 

He sits alone in his sunken castle,

The walls emblazoned with prophecies of a miracle

A miracle performed by the Angel of Death,

The angel who created God.

 

He shall never falter, never fail;

Though his feet never move, he shall always be

Two steps ahead of himself

And three steps ahead of his lies.

 

His bait runs in circles, his creations fester

As he waits in cold, selfish comfort,

A hollow in his chest and dust settling on his bones

And unrelenting pride a fog in front of his judgment.

 

And he shall be judged;

For his pride and his remorselessness

He shall be eviscerated by his own monster,

And the very messenger he sent to destroy it.

 


	5. Greed

Oh let the slaves build your pyramid, Mr. Greed,

Their bleeding hands were made for no other purpose.

Lay back and sip your liquid diamond

While you dream your dreams above the rest.

 

It is impossible to delve too deep,

For diamonds always lie at the very bottom

Coated with the blood of their rightful owners,

Mined from the skulls of the poor and the fragile.

 

Greed is fueled by no hatred and no love,

No love for anything but the promise of wealth.

Morals have no presence, they are unneeded, discarded

Just like the infinitesimal lives of the weak.

 

The old king is dead, or so they would have you think

So long live the new king, the false king,

The Steward of Nowhere, the supervisor's supervisor

Who pulls the strings and crunches the numbers.

 

Everything is calculated, executed in the dead of night,

No loopholes in the web of lies, no loose ends

Not a weak spot that can't be dealt with

In one foul way or another.

 

The cost doesn't matter as long as it's paid in lives,

But in dollars, it's quite the hard decision.

Greed couldn't spare a passing glance for charity,

Other than to hide behind the virtue like the coward he is.

 

The whole world is his wonderland;

He can reap precious gold from anywhere he chooses

Without punishment ever coming to meet him,

For the ignorant have seen no evil.

 

While hundreds of fragile lives struggle beneath his feet,

He has the notion to call them depraved

As he crushes their dreams for the greater dream:

Spelled 'god' to some, spelled 'gold' to others.

 

And he shall be judged;

For his greed and his disregard for life,

He shall be rent from the inside out

Merely seconds away from his victory.

 


	6. Sloth

With quiet eyes, blue veins, and empty lungs,

The pale prince of nightmares is sealed away,

Miles beneath the world that the waking walk,

In a slumber so permanent he could not be woken by the rapture.

 

Unwitting but willing enough, he is trapped inside a dream

A dream rendered in technicolor and numeric values

A riotous nightmare that would certainly awake any other,

But could never draw Snow White from his poisoned slumber.

 

Paralyzed, frozen, locked forever within a madman's dream,

So asleep that even his body's systems drag,

Drag so powerfully that his very organs cannot live

Without being supported by a city's worth of machinery.

 

This sin was placed upon him by foreign hands,

But he held out his palms to receive it,

Welcomed the icy claws of sleep into his flesh

And the turbulence of a thousand dreams into his mind.

 

Such a simple little sin, such a revered sin,

The one which can be executed so easily, so casually,

That not even so much as human consciousness

Is needed to facilitate its presence in one's greater being.

 

Rest has found him at last, he lives as though in death,

While shadows and legends carry out his legacy

Which is, perhaps, what all men truly want

But, for stronger sins already rule their body, cannot attain.

 

Yes, yes, it is truer than the greatest truth:

Sloth is the softest and weakest of the sins,

Nearly invisible unless all other sin has been filtered out,

And the clean soul painted anew with sloth.

 

He is the purest, the strongest, the unmarred,

Yet still floating in a clear ocean of sin.

Quiet, almost pure, seemingly devoid of blackness,

For he was the only one to truly accept the blackness.

 

And he shall be judged;

For his sloth and his willingness to receive it,

He will die in the blink of an eye, in his never-ending sleep,

A burst of black blood on the greater light.

 


	7. Envy

Desperate for money, for attention, for knowledge,

A little bit of everything simmering in his void of desires,

The swift figure of Envy cuts like a blade

Through the minds of all those he strides by.

 

Half a businessman and half a withered lunatic,

Two-faced just as literally as figuratively

He strives day and night for status and wealth,

For affirmation in a role he never deserved in the first place.

 

Try as he might, he is always just in the shadow

Of his best friend, their sins nigh on kin -

Greed, the unrelenting, the conniving

Envy mocks the mockingbird, imitates the false king.

 

He wants whatever others have, regardless of the sin

That they bear along with their desirable traits.

He broods in his jealousy, alone with Greed's discarded lives

Which he uses like a canvas to vent his anger.

 

His anger is the consistency of smoke, the color of grime,

Stale, latent, and repressed as far as he dares

Disguised as stress, hidden behind white smiles

And an even whiter collar.

 

His tongue is sour, his body is bent,

Warped from years of corruption and silence

His anger and jealousy chewing like a swarm of rats

On his twisted, shuddering organs.

 

His tarnished envy rusts with ferric hatred

And his eyes twist back into his skull.

It's almost a pity his dreams are saturated with blood

Which overflows so greatly it infects everyone around him.

 

Jealous of Greed's wealth, of how unaffected he is

As Envy himself descends into madness and worldly decay,

Descends into the visceral chaos that surrounds him

And the lingering pain of constant illness.

 

And he shall be judged;

For his envy and his seething spite

The very covetous breath within his skin

Shall be crushed in its entirety from between his ribs.

 


End file.
